You wonder, sometimes, if you'll ever be the same again. It's almost like that tree analogy-does it make a sound when it falls if no one is around to see it? You wonder sometimes, if life would have turned out the same for them if you hadn't been there. If you'd never lived in Neptune.
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You're on the floor of some girl's room, plastered off your ass and having sex with a guy you think is on the baseball team. His name is Curt. Or Charlie, maybe, you can't quite remember, but he scored you the good hash last time, and this is your way of repaying him. He's biting at your neck the way Logan used to, and as he paws at your breasts, you let yourself think of him for a moment. Logan. Your memory is fuzzy, colors splashing in from all directions, almost as if you forgot to shade inside the lines, and you laugh at that until he asks you what's funny, pumping harder and faster and…and then it's over, and he rolls from under you, muttering 'slut' as he goes. You don't really care what he thinks as long as he gets you the stash he promised.
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You've always been skinny, but now, it has reached the point of insanity. Your skin practically falls off your bones as you pause in line at the Starbucks, shivering even in this December heat, as you try and count up all your change. It doesn't equal a dollar, not by a mile, and you start to smile apologetically to the barista behind the counter before you hear a familiar voice behind you.
"I'm sorry. Just one second. I'll figure something-"
"I've got it, Okay?" The voice says, and you shiver again, burrowing deeper into the worn fabric of your red sweatshirt, afraid to turn around and see who it is, because you know and because you never wanted him to see you like this.
"Thanks," You mutter under your breath, grabbing your coffee from the server's hands before he's even set in on the counter, and gulping it down. It burns at your throat, but it's warm-oh so warm, and you haven't felt that in a while.
"Veronica-" The voice says, but you're already on the move. It kills you to throw the warmth of the coffee away, but it surprises him, and gives you a head start. "Veronica, will you wait?" He calls out again, and you want to stop, at least some part of you does, but you can't. You're too far-gone, this is too far-gone, and you can't handle letting another person down. Your legs are wobbly beneath you, and you settle on the convenient park bench behind you, huddling within yourself, tears you didn't even know you could cry anymore sluicing down your cheeks. "Veronica?" Him again. You start to get up, start to untangle yourself, but you can't. Your movements are slow and weak, and you trip over yourself and fall to the ground, a cut on your cheek now adding to the map of emotions on your face. "God, Veronica are you Okay?" You try to get up, dirt clinging to your fingernails, wincing as you finally settle against the front of the bench, your entire body shaking. You want to laugh, because of course not. You don't think you'll ever be Okay again, but you nod, and try and put on your best coaxing face. You haven't had to use it for a while, but that doesn't mean you don't still have it. You brave a glance at him, just his shoes though, really. Looking at the rest of him would require energy you don't have, and for a fleeting second you wonder if it's mental or physical. It's probably both, so you keep staring at his shoes; torn, beaten up vans you're sure the prince of Neptune royalty could be doing better than. There's a joke in there somewhere you could make, but your throat is dry, and your lips are chapped, and it's taking everything you have not to pass out right here because you're so tired. His fingers touch your arm, light and airy, but it's still contact you can't handle, and his face swimming before you is the last thing you remember before everything goes black.
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"Do you know what your name is?" There's a plump redhead in a really convincing nurse's outfit in front of you, and you blink at her because what's she's asking doesn't make sense. Who is she, and where are you anyway? You try to move your head and take a look, but it hurts, and suddenly there's so much pain everywhere, and you can't stand it. But she doesn't seem to care about how much you hurt, and she's standing there with her stupid clipboard, looking at you like she knows something you don't, and you hate her for it, but nod. Once. "Can you tell me out loud?" Her tone is babying, and it makes you want to scream. You want to know where you are, but she's writing things furiously on that damn clipboard of hers, that you don't ask.
"Ver-" You pause a second so you can clear your throat, swallowing, because it's so dry and because you haven't talked in what seems like ages. "I'm Veronica. Veronica Mars." You say, quietly, wanting to add the pep squad grin that had gotten you everywhere you needed to go in high school, but it hurts to think about that, so you don't. Ms. Clip board probably wouldn't have bought it anyway.
"Very good." Stupid, fucking-who the hell does she think she is, condescending you like that? Like you're dumb enough to not know your own name? Of course you know your freaking name. It's yours. And, you realize, probably the only thing you really have left. "Do you know the date, Ms. Mars? Or the circumstances in which you were brought to Neptune Memorial?" So that's where you are. You wonder why, but it makes your brain hurt, so you stop. You look at her again, widening your eyes and trying to look innocent. She isn't amused, so you shrug your shoulders. The last thing you remember is…well, you don't want to think about that.
"I was getting a cup of coffee after class," You churn out, your voice sounding more polished than you've heard it since…since before. Tears prick at your eyes, but you don't want to think about that either. God, you need a cigarette. A fix. A shot. Something to make you stop thinking. Thinking is what got you here in the first place. Or maybe not here…
"Ms. Mars, you were brought in by one Logan Echolls," Your skin prickles at the mention of his name, and you can feel your face flush. He's the one person who you never wanted to see you like this. "He's suggested that you attend at 36 day drug rehabilitation program in our sister hospital in Chicago. I suggest you take this opportunity. Mr. Echolls has offered to foot the bill, no matter the cost." This woman must not know who you are. That's the only excuse for her disdainful tone, and the way she keeps looking down at you. You want to kick her, or would if you could move your feet. "Ms. Mars, I need either your approval or denial of this offer. The program starts in two days." She's gone before you can respond, and you can't blame her. You're not exactly the best company, but she could have at least waited for you to say no. You don't need anyone's charity. You never have.
"Veronica?" Him again. You want to burrow under the covers, hide until this is all over, wake up from the awful nightmare of the past 6 months of your life, and never let your father out of your sight again. Or maybe kick the crap out of little Beaver Casablancas before he had a chance to dial that stupid cell phone…your breathing becomes labored, and you can feel the tears slip out of your eyes. Logan Echolls is the last person in the world you want to witness this break, but he doesn't seem to be leaving, and there's nothing you can do about it.
"What do you want, Logan?" You congratulate yourself on another complete sentence. You even managed to throw some annoyance in your tone. Next, you'll be doing Shakespeare readings in the quad.
"You're doing drugs." His words are low, and accusing and exactly what you don't need. Your head is throbbing, and your ears are ringing and you're pretty sure if you don't have a cigarette soon your entire body will explode.
"What an astute deduction. Now, can you help me get out of here? I have a-" His fingers are touching your face, and you can't think. Your mind is wondrously blank as his hands cup your cheek, and you blink to keep the traitorous tears in. Stupid tears. It's just touching. You were touched a lot yesterday and you didn't cry. At least you think it was yesterday, and at least not until you got to the shower. You threw up then too, but he doesn't need to know that. He doesn't need to know anything. He lost that privilege when he left you.
"What the hell happened to you Veronica?" His tone is icy cold, and his hands, his beautiful hands that feel so wonderful on your calloused skin, drop to his lap. His eyes are penetrating, even though you can't bring yourself to look into them.
"Let's see," You mutter, a surge of anger flowing through you. "My father blew up. I found out I was raped by a 14-year-old kid who'd been fucked with around himself. My boyfriend left. My house burned down. I had to walk to school uphill both ways with no shoes on in the snow. Leave me the fuck alone, Logan. What the hell happened to you?" You're shocked at how really angry you are. And you can't stop the tears from coming this time around as you remember Cassidy Casablancas' face as he'd blown up the plane containing your father. You really hadn't had anything to live for after that and he knew it. Everyone knew it. He'd cried too, he'd cried so fucking hard as he'd stepped onto that ledge, muttering things like, I'm sorry and I hadn't meant to. I didn't mean it…but you didn't care. Your entire world had shattered at your feet and there had been nothing you could have done. You couldn't even hear him really, didn't notice he was gone until the car, feet and feet below you had broken his fall. He hadn't even screamed, and you wonder now if you would. If you had, when you'd gone on your own downward spiral.
"I told you to come with me." He mutters, and the fact that he's so sad for you makes you sick. You don't want his pity, and you tell him so. Except it comes out sounding like a sob. And then suddenly you can't stop crying and his arms settle around you, and you finally, finally feel safe. Maybe you can survive this.
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You doubt it though. Nothing ever works out the way it's supposed to.